


Definitely Not That

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Eventual Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, non S3 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2877974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns from his, erm, time away he has a newfound need to touch John. Totally platonic. Tooooooootally. Yup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Look, Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnjunkie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnjunkie/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Although he was hesitant to admit it, John had fallen into a very bad habit. It was one of those things that felt so good that you told yourself if you only did it once in a while it wouldn't be too bad, like rich desserts and paying for takeaway instead of cooking. This, however, had him by much more drastic hold than the tastebuds or the cheque book. 

Ever since Sherlock had come back...well, let's just leave it at that, ever since then he'd changed. There was one new behavior in particular that was quite possibly on its way to ruining John's life. It had nothing to do with the strange tea Sherlock had come to like or the way that he was hesitant to let John out of his sight, those could both be lived through. It was the way he now seemed to always want to touch John.

It had started out as a hand on the shoulder or knee while at the table, something that had the same effect on John as he thought a great deal of cocaine would; heart palpitations, sweatiness and a sort of far away type feeling that had him checking to see that, yes, he was still on the ground, or sofa rather.

That was bad enough. He really should have called an end to it. Should have removed Sherlock's hand from his upper thigh and explained that friends don't really touch like that, well, male, British friends. He knew Sherlock, probably better than anyone else, so the fact that he didn't foresee it getting more out of hand was a testiment to how distracted the action had him.

"We're going to be late!" Sherlock said with a long sigh as he took John's hand in his, intertwining their fingers, and walked him out to the kerb.

John's eyes shot wide and he knew he was blushing by the sudden heat in his cheeks as Sherlock dragged him away in front of the whole of New Scotland Yard. The electric door closed behind him and John suddenly wished it was solid wood as he saw the look on Sally Donovan's face. It fell quite spectacularly into a state of shock as Sherlock put his hand on John's lower back to help him into the waiting cab. Help that he didn't need, for Christ's sake.

When he'd finally swallowed enough times to get his heart out of his throat and back to the general vicinity of his chest John was able to speak. Anger, it seemed, was the way he was going in light of this new development.

"You can't just pull me around by the hand like a bloody child, Sherlock! You made me look like an imbecile to the whole squad!" John shouted, for he found himself shouting after all his swallowing and deep breathing.

Sherlock scoffed and placed his hand on John's knee in a now familiar move.

"They wouldn't know what an imbecile looked like, John. They see themselves in the mirror every morning and continue to come to work, after all." He said dismissively.

"Do you even know when you're crossing a line?" John seethed, "Do you just see it and go 'oh, well' before traipsing over it or do you really not know what you're doing?"

Sherlock turned and looked John over at that, eyes belying the confusion he was feeling for a second before a mask of disinterest slipped down.

"And what, pray tell, am I doing?" he asked snidely.

"You're acting WEIRD!" John hissed.

He knew it had been the wrong thing to say the second it had left his mouth. It was too bloody late to take it back by then so he simply had to try for damage control. He didn't do a particularly good job.

"It's not normal for two grown men to hold hands, Sherlock." he tried.

"Oh, yes, and by all means we should be normal. God forbid we don't fit into your society's perfect little boxes. How dare I act outside the 'norm'? I'm sure I've made a fool of us both." Sherlock replied bitterly, yanking his hand away from John's leg for the first time yet, something which surprised John to no end.

It wasn't necessarily coldness settling in, for the cab was a bit too heated to begin with, but the lack of direct warmth that John found disturbing in the wake of Sherlock's sudden adjustment. John impulsively covered the place Sherlock's hand had been with his own and massaged it as the cab pulled up to 221.

Sherlock darted out of the cab in a swirl of dark coat and disgust and John was left once again to pay the bill. He handed over a few notes and was surprised when he got out to find the detective standing on the landing with his arms crossed and the frown turned all-out scowl directed sharply at him.

Even with his indignant attitude he still held the door open for John and followed him in and up the steps. John felt his eyes boring holes in his back and sighed deeply as he tossed his jacket on the sofa and scrubbed and hand through his hair.

"Look, Sherlock-" he tried.

"If you really want me to stop touching you so badly I will!" Sherlock spit as he flopped onto the sofa, tops of his shoes resting on John's jacket. "It's not like I actually need to!"

John scrunched his nose up and closed his eyes, trying to come up with something to say that wouldn't make it seem like he was folding completely.

"I didn't say you have to-" John began again, this time being cut off by Sherlock jumping to his feet and gripping his shoulders.

John gasped as Sherlock looked back and forth between his eyes for...something. John wasn't sure what it was he was looking for but he apparently found it because he was quite suddenly sticking his nose against John's neck and breathing deeply. John choked on the large amount of saliva that had started to pool in his mouth and Sherlock took a step back, gave a short nod and fell back onto the sofa with his usual flair.

So that was it then. Another line crossed just like that. John felt a bit wobbly as he walked up the steps to his room and lay down to stare blankly at the ceiling. He couldn't fathom what his body had told Sherlock that had him convinced it would be fine to bloody sniff his neck. Because it wasn't. It wasn't fine. It wasn't fine in the most glorious way possible. It was definitely not that.


	2. Content

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes down the next morning to find Sherlock in a bit of a situation.

The next morning when John made his way downstairs Sherlock was already up and on the sofa. This was nothing new but John had hoped he could have a little time by himself in the sitting room to think up a way to tell the man things had gone too far. It wasn't that John didn't enjoy being smelled by his flat mate, it was that the action was something he unfortunately found himself really enjoying. Well, his cock, his cock quite enjoyed it. It enjoyed it so much that it had woken him up quite enthusiastically a half hour before and it was all John could do to have a silent wank and not hate himself for it.

If there was one thing he was certain of it was that Sherlock Holmes didn't do relationships. He'd never shown interest in a single person while John was around, even if he had been upset over the amount of attention the Woman was paid, and John was sure he wouldn't be the first. Sherlock wouldn't change his ways for any John Watson and that was a fact so all this touching and now the smelling had to come to a stop because his body was convinced it would come to a head in some spectacular way, involving sweaty limbs and lubricant and quite possibly biting down on one of those glorious arsecheeks. Christ. It had to stop.

He drew all his nerves together and turned to the sofa. "Sherlock, we need-"

Sherlock rolled over and John sighed heavily. The poor man looked like shite. His eyes were ringed and his nose red and he sniffled loudly before whining.

"I need to go to the morgue." Sherlock said, voice pinched due to his stuffed up sinuses.

"You have a cold." John said, taking pity on him and walking to start water for tea and grab some tissue.

"No, I don't. I don't get sick, John. Never have." Sherlock replied weakly. "I've just got some sort of allergic reaction to something. Are you wearing a new cologne?"

John passed the tissue to Sherlock and felt his forehead with the back of his hand. No fever at least.

"You have a cold, Sherlock. All I can do for you is keep your fluids up and treat the symptoms. I've got some syrup upstairs that'll do the trick. You lay back down while I get it, yeah?" John said sympathetically.

Sherlock flopped back down to his original position, blowing his nose with thunderous effect and whimpering again. John took the steps two at a time and rummaged through his personal stash of meds for the cherry flavored stuff he'd bought the last time he was sick. That and the throat spray. God, the stuff was awful tasting but it got the job done. He made it back downstairs in time for the kettle to go off and made Sherlock a cuppa with honey instead of the usual sugar. 

"Two spoonfuls of this." John said, setting down the small bottle and a spoon. "And spray this in your throat. A few pumps will do. Local analgesic is all. Go on, won't kill you."

Sherlock spooned the medicine into his mouth with a frown and pulled a face when he sprayed the throat relief. It was awful.

"Tea! I need the tea!" Sherlock said desperately.

John held the cup back from Sherlock's reach and shook his head.

"A few seconds longer for the spray to work. Can't have you washing it down before it's able to numb your throat completely." he said.

Sherlock huffed and fidgeted for a while before sticking two fingers down his throat to check if it had worked, something which shouldn't have been the least bit sexy but was, dear god, it was.

"Okay, okay. Yeah, here." John said, halting him in his exploration of his own lack of gag reflex and pushing the tea into his other hand. "Shower. Im going to. Im going to shower."

Sherlock didn't seem to notice how worked up his feeling around had got John, thank the gods, and John was able to walk away without notice.

The steam from the shower did nothing for him, fogging the air and making his head swim. He closed his eyes and rested against the tile wall, exhausted from all this dancing back and forth. It was becoming impossible for him to tamp down his arousal, seemingly brought back to life every time he saw the genius. Genius. Well, for a genius he really was quite daft. If anyone should be able to see how he felt about Sherlock, how he'd always felt, it should be the man himself. That didn't happen, though. His only blind spot happened to be himself.

John snorted, thinking of the time he'd told Sherlock to stop making 'that face' and Sherlock had stared, utterly perplexed, at himself in the mirror before offering up that it was 'just his face'. Oblivious. Utterly daft.

John soaped up his hair and rinsed it quickly before getting out and slinging a towel around his waist to shave. Sherlock was banging around in the kitchen, a good sign seeing as he was actually vertical, and John sighed deeply as he spread the shaving cream down his chin. He couldn't explain why the sound of Sherlock moving around the flat gave him such peace. Maybe it was that he lived there at a time, a horrible time, when there was no Sherlock in the flat. All day and all night without Sherlock grumbling, without him playing his violin, without him complaining. Maybe it was that during that time, the time before he moved out of Baker Street for what he thought was good, all he wished for was to have to clean up after the bastard for one more day. Just one more day of being used as an extra appendage. One.

"John." Came a rough voice from the other side of the door. "Where's the honey?"

John set the razor down and cleared his throat, resting his hands on the edge of the sink and trying to ignore the pull in his chest towards the door, towards his genius.

"In the cupboard left of the sink. Are you making more tea?" John said in what he hoped was a normal voice.

"Yes." Sherlock replied in his newly pinched tone. 

"Put on enough water for me, will you?" John asked.

Sherlock grumbled a soft 'yes, John', something that made the pull in John's chest intensify, actively trying to get him closer to the man, and left. John finished his shaving and brushed his teeth before opening the door and walking into the hall.

"Go drink your tea in the loo." he said as he passed Sherlock on his way to the stairs, "You need the steam."

Sherlock walked down the hall and John watched him pass, almost expecting him to walk the few steps out of his way to touch him. He tried not to be disappointed when Sherlock kept on his way instead.

_____

By the time John had emerged from his room fully clothed and ready to face the day Sherlock was out of the loo and back on the sofa. His tea was gone and he was curled with his face pressed unhygienically against the cushions. John wondered how he was able to breathe with his head so surrounded by polyfil.

"Dau gau doo dergh." Sherlock mumbled.

"What?" John asked, leaning down to tie his shoelaces.

"I said," Sherlock stated with a huff, "don't go to work."

"Don't start that up. You know I have to. This new boss isn't as forgiving as Sarah was." John said as he gathered his keys.

"But I'm sick!" Sherlock groused, "You said it yourself, surely that takes precedence!"

"You having a cold does not take precedence over my actual job. You aren't a first former, you can handle yourself for the few hours I'm gone." John replied with little heat.

Sherlock slumped back against the cushions and John suddenly felt quite bad. He went and sat on the arm of the sofa, running a hesitant hand into Sherlock's tangled curls as he spoke.

"Look, I'll bring you soup at lunchtime and we can spend the whole night in." he said gently, "Does that sound good?"

Sherlock nodded and hummed before slipping into a fit of sneezing. John squeezed his shoulder before standing again and walking to the door. He stopped one last time.

"Plenty of fluids." he added, "And rest."

Happy with the small nod he got in response, John walked out the door and made his way to the tube station.

_____

A little after eleven there was a knock on John's door and one of the nurses came in. She was one of the new ones, just joined the team the week prior, and John couldn't remember her name. She looked nervous as she came in and closed the door behind her so John set down his pen and turned to give her his full attention.

"Dr Watson?" she started, "There's a man outside that says he has an appointment but the book says you aren't booked until after three."

John ran a hand across his brow and nearly folded in half.

"Tall bloke, dark curls and an attitude?" he asked, really not going for fond exasperation but making it there anyhow.

The girl nodded and John gave his signal for 'bring them in'. She left the room and John listened for Sherlock's steps down the hallway. Sure enough, they came along in less than ten seconds and the door swung open to reveal Sherlock in a worse state than earlier that morning.

"I don't see why you have to be here if you aren't seeing any patients." Sherlock said in lieu of greeting.

"I was doing paperwork, thank you very much. This looks an awful lot not like resting, Sherlock." John shot back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat on the examination table with a loud forced exhale. John eyed him carefully before turning back to his papers and picking up his pen.

"You can stay until lunch if you keep quiet." he said, being reminded of his old barber and the man's well behaved, but aggressively needy, Basset hound.

Sherlock took it well and John went back to writing with the sound of the paper covering the examination table shifting slightly. 

By the time it was lunch John had got quite a bit done. The realization caused him to look back at Sherlock's previous position nervously. The man in question was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed, breathing shallowly in sleep. John crossed his arms and was content to watch him sleep for the next few minutes. 


	3. Oh

John woke Sherlock fifteen minutes later with a cup of soup from the canteen and a slice of bread. Sherlock grumbled and frowned at it but took the offering none the less, perhaps remembering that he'd come to John's work against his word and not wanting to push the doctor much more. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock was very aware of how far he could push the doctor before the man broke. Not only was he aware, he'd been working for a long time to expand what the doctor would put up with. It wasn't wholly malicious, of course, but rather what he thought would be best for him and his companion.

He...liked...John. God, what a pedestrian thing to think. It was true, however, and something he was quite done trying to deny. He couldn't understand why things weren't progressing as he'd planned though, John still being a bloody stick in the mud and not wanting to admit that he enjoyed the forced intimacy. He obviously had a huge blind spot when it came to his own desires.

"Anybody in there?" John asked as he waved a thermometer around in front of Sherlock's face.

"I don't have a fever." Sherlock replied quickly.

"Yeah, well, let's let this little guy decide that, shall we?" John said with a small shrug.

"Does that work on your patients?" Sherlock asked, "anthropomorphizing medical equipment?"

John shook his head and slipped the thermometer into Sherlock's ear. He watched the numbers climb, never passing normal, and finally took it out after the small beep the thing gave off.

"Someday a robot's going to take over your job." Sherlock grumbled.

"Yeah, sexbot 5000." John joked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went back to his lunch. John ignored the fact that the joke hadn't gone over well and they ate silently for the next few minutes. When they were done John grabbed Sherlock's coat and helped him slip it on before ushering him out of the room and sending him on his way.

"I'll be home at five thirty." He hollered after.

Sherlock nodded slightly and continued out the front door. The new nurse came up beside John with a soft smile and rested a hand on his arm.

"He really is a sweetheart, isn't he?" She asked.

John pulled a face at that, the notion that anyone would call Sherlock a 'sweetheart', and the woman stumbled over an apology.

"I'm so sorry, Dr Watson, I thought, it's just he was so casual around you that I assumed-" she began.

"It's fine," John said in a placating manner, "we've been best friends for years. People always assume."

"Oh...so you're single?" she asked.

John nearly choked on his answer and was more than a little disturbed by the implications, "I'm kind of married to my work."

"Yes, of course. Excuse me. How embarrassing." she tittered as she walked away.

Jesus. Married to his work? Had he really sounded that desperate when he'd hit on Sherlock that first night? He rubbed his brow, trying to ease the headache he felt coming. 

_____

Sherlock climbed the stairs slowly, hand resting on the wall to keep his balance and made it to John's room just in time. He was exhausted. Perhaps John had been right to tell him to stay home and relax. He dispensed with the thought and hobbled to the side of John's bed, pulling the duvet back and slipping under it. He'd never been in John's bed before and tried to enjoy the feeling of it, breathing in against John's pillow deeply. 

That had been one of the things he missed most while he was dead, John's scent. After a whole year of dissecting the components of some of the most popular women's colognes he knew which words to use to explain the way John smelled but it still didn't help. The problem with it lay in the fact that it went beyond explaining how he smelled and into the territory of how it made Sherlock FEEL. He'd rather not go there.

He closed his eyes and let himself drift off to sleep.

_____

John was more than a bit frantic as he searched the flat for Sherlock when he got home. They hadn't had a real 'bad guy' since Moriarty but that didn't mean Sherlock was necessarily safe. His greatcoat was by the front door as well as his shoes and his keys were on the kitchen table but the man himself was nowhere to be found. It looked as though he'd settled onto the couch but there was really no telling if it had been that afternoon or that evening as the man never cleaned up after himself. 

There were no overturned tables or other signs of struggle so John was starting to think whoever he went with he had to have trusted. The only person he could think of that fit that category was Greg. He slipped his mobile from his pocket and started typing out a text to the DI as he went to his room to change out of his work clothes.

He stopped when he opened the door and found Sherlock sleeping in his bed. He was reminded of Goldilocks and mused for a moment over how Sherlock's feet stuck out over the edge of the bed, socked toes peeking from below the duvet.

"John." Sherlock nearly purred, said toes wiggling, "You're home."

"And you're in my bed." John replied, smiling fondly as he slipped off his tie and went to get his favorite cotton pajama shirt, the long sleeved blue striped one.

"I have no explanation for that. I think perhaps this cold has taken a turn for the worse." Sherlock replied, pulling the pillow from under his head and flopping it over his tousled curls.

"At least you'll admit you don't have a reason to be in my bed." John said with a sigh as he unbuttoned his shirt and shrugged it off. "You sound less congested, though. Do you feel worse?"

Sherlock mumbled something that was rendered unintelligible by the soft down of the overstuffed pillow and John slipped the shirt on and took off his belt. He hung it on the doorknob of his closet and sat on the edge of the bed, causing Sherlock to move closer to him and wrap an arm around his waist. John stiffened at the gesture but Sherlock didn't ease up.

"The new nurse thought we were an item." he said nervously.

Sherlock peeked out from beneath the pillow and narrowed his eyes. 

"People always think that." he said slowly.

"Yes, well...when I corrected her she hit on me." John added.

Sherlock was the one to stiffen then and John felt stupid for saying it.

"You have a date? You said we'd spend the night in. You can't say that we'll-" Sherlock began in irritation.

"I don't have a date. I told her I was married to my work." John said with an exasperated sigh, not quite sure why he was telling Sherlock that.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and sat up.

"Are you, now?" he asked, his choice to ever breath again hinging on the answer.

"I wasn't hitting on you that first night." John lied.

Sherlock huffed and lay back down, holding onto John's waist with both arms. John mentally scolded himself and cleared his throat, it was all getting more than a bit out of hand.

"I'll order in. What do you want?" he asked.

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock whined.

"And I don't really care. Choose, or I'll choose for you." John shot back indignantly.

"Fine. Chinese. Hot and sour soup." Sherlock replied, defeated.

"Will you eat wontons if I get them?" John asked as he punched the number into his mobile.  
"Probably." Sherlock admitted quietly.

John rang the place and began to put in their order, ignoring the fact that Sherlock had wrapped the forefinger of his right hand around one of his belt loops and was holding on for what seemed like dear life. As he ignored Sherlock's action he tried to ignore his reaction. That was harder. He was flooded with the memory of his first girlfriend and the way she would always hold onto his belt loop when the stood together. The only action that could possibly be more intimate at this point was if Sherlock put his hand in John's pocket. He really hoped that didn't happen, as he was already having trouble controlling his breathing as it was.

"Want a cuppa?" he asked weakly after he rang off.

"It was difficult for me...being without you." Sherlock said quite suddenly, not sure how the honesty had forced its was out.

"Oh." John replied lamely.

"I know, I know now it was difficult for you too. I didn't expect it to be. I apologise." Sherlock added.

"Well, fuck." John spit.

Sherlock swallowed and shook his head. "Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything."

"No. No, it's...I just can't believe you wouldn't think it would be bloody hell for me! You're my... I can't do this without you." John said in one long exhale.

"Do what?" Sherlock asked, right thumb brushing against John's side.

"Life. I can't...can we please not talk about this?" John sputtered.

Sherlock was silent for a long while as John looked pointedly at the wall above his dresser. When he did speak he tried to keep it light.

"I could really go for that cuppa you were suggesting." he said.

John sniffed and nodded, waiting for Sherlock to let go of his waist to stand. He stopped as he was leaving the room, hesitating like he was going to turn and say something, before exiting at last without a word. Sherlock felt like he might vomit.


	4. Nonexistent Lint And Other Excuses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These freaking idiots.

John brought the tea up a few minutes later and handed Sherlock his mug, taking a seat next to him on the bed and sipping at his. Sherlock had thrown all his used tissues on the bedside table and John made a mental note to disinfect the entire area before he went to sleep that night.

"You can't stay up here all night, you know." John said as Sherlock settled back into the bed, sniffing and clearing his throat.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, "You said I should rest."

"Yeah, but dinner is on its way and you aren't eating in my bed. You well know how messy you are. I'll end up with crumbs for weeks." John replied.

"Crumbs from my soup?" Sherlock asked teasingly.

"No, crumbs from everything you steal from me. If I didn't know better I'd think you were a vulture." John replied, "Why are you up here, anyway?"

"Your bed smells like you. The pillow especially. It even has a dark spot where you lay your head every night." Sherlock said with a small shrug.

"Okay, okay. Jesus." John said. "So you like...how I smell."

"Crossed wires, I suppose. When I came back I realised it. You smell like home." Sherlock said with a yawn.

John didn't know what to say to that so he just looked down into his tea.

_____

That was the first night Sherlock slept in John's bed. He'd complained so much that John had let him return to it after dinner and climb under the covers. John spent half the night up listening to Sherlock breathe and wondering what to do with all the emotion that was slowly suffocating him.

_____

A week later John was brushing his teeth when Sherlock slipped up behind him and rested a hand on his hip. John stilled and tried to calm his breathing. Sherlock ignored his response, if outward signs were to be believed, and reached around John to get his own toothbrush.

"This is a really small loo, Sherlock. Can't you wait until I'm done?" John asked, voice slightly pinched.

"Don't people like you care about water consumption? It's a drought year." Sherlock replied through a mouthful of foam.

"It's raining, you liar." John said with a grin.

Sherlock rested his cheek on John's shoulder, slumping down slightly to do so, and continued to brush.  
'I'd like to marry you', John thought suddenly. He stood up at that, jostling Sherlock slightly, and cleared his throat. Sherlock looked at him in the mirror, eyebrows knit, as though he could see right into John's brain. John rinsed his mouth and started out the door.

"You should sleep down here now." Sherlock said before John could make it far.

John stopped in his tracks and turned slightly, confusion evident on his face.

"What?" he asked, redundant as it was.

"You heard me just fine." Sherlock replied, slipping past John and starting to unbutton his shirt. 

"And why would I not sleep in my own bloody bed?" John asked, becoming more incensed as Sherlock continued to act casual.

"You'll like my bed better. It'll do wonders for your back." Sherlock replied.

"So, what, we're trading beds now? What the hell has got into you?" John asked.

"John." Sherlock said, the name spoken as if it was all the response John needed.

"Don't you 'John' me!"

Sherlock gave a long suffering sigh and turned around, chest bare and pale beneath the open panels of his shirt. John shouldn't have been surprised to see him like that, he'd stitched the man up enough times to know what his torso looked like, but he hadn't seen Sherlock like that in a long while, relaxed and almost nude.

"We'll both sleep down here." Sherlock replied as though it were obvious. "It's ridiculous that we've been sleeping up there this whole time. The bed isn't nearly big enough for the two of us."

"Because you're built like a giraffe." John shot back, not sure why he was feeling defensive.

Sherlock gave him one of his lopsided grins and John deflated a bit before conceding with a nod and starting up the stairs to get into his pajamas. Sherlock removed his trousers and slipped under the duvet. 

John returned shortly thereafter and stood at the edge of the bed in hesitation. He looked Sherlock over and rested his hands on his hips.

"Tell me again why I'm doing this." he said.

"Because I asked." Sherlock replied.

John shook his head and got under the covers, reaching for the bedside lamp and switching it off. "No, you didn't." he said softly.

Sherlock scooted over and wrapped his arm around John's waist. It was the first time Sherlock had done that while they were in bed together and John pretended that it didn't affect him, thinking that made up most of his life now, the dichotomy of outward calm and internal chaos.

"Goodnight, John." Sherlock murmured.

John swallowed audibly and slipped his right arm under Sherlock's neck, telling himself it was only so he could be comfortable and nothing more.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." he replied.

_____

The next week was Greg's birthday and they had been invited to his party at the Fox and Hound. Sherlock had complained for a while but stopped when he saw how determined John was. If there was anything that rivaled Sherlock's stubborn streak it was John's.

"Don't wear that jumper." Sherlock said from John's doorway, making John jolt and drop said jumper.

"Christ! I should put a bloody bell on you!" John squeaked.

"That jumper makes you look frumpy. I won't be seen to be going out with an old man." Sherlock whined, crossing his arms for further effect.

John folded the jumper and slid it back into his dresser.

"Fine, Mr Fashion, what should I wear?" John teased, mirroring Sherlock unconsciously by crossing his arms as well.

"Wear the red one. The one I got you for Christmas." Sherlock replied, going to flop down on John's bed.

"Mycroft got me that one." John replied as he went to look for it in the closet.

"Close enough." Sherlock said with a weak flap of his hand.

John snorted out a laugh and slipped it on over his light blue checked shirt.

"Better?" he asked.

"Mmm. Much." Sherlock replied.

"My father would roll over in his grave at the thought of his son being dressed by a male friend." John said with a laugh.

"Well, someone has to and you've stopped dating so I guess it falls to me." Sherlock replied.

John stopped at that and looked up with what Sherlock could have sworn was fear on his face. Fear of what Sherlock didn't know.

"I haven't stopped dating." he said defensively, "I just haven't had the time."

"Of course." Sherlock said as he got up with a sigh and started out of the room.

"What does that mean?" John asked as he followed, almost tripping himself by pulling on socks and trying to keep up with the taller man.

"It doesn't mean anything." Sherlock said as he slipped into his greatcoat.

"Bullshit. Everything means something with you." John replied.

"Okay, what I meant was that you can tell yourself you've been too busy if that makes you feel better." Sherlock blurted out.

John's face drew cold and he nodded once. "And what other reason would I have, Sherlock? I get offers. Plenty."

Sherlock snorted. "I know you get offers. They don't even let up when I'm around."

John cocked his head to the side at that. "And why would they? We're not together, Sherlock."

Sherlock scrunched up his nose and brushed lint from his sleeve. Nonexistent lint. He was about to say something probably scathing when Greg walked in.


	5. Customary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get plastered.

Greg saw the tension between the two men and stepped cleanly out of the way as Sherlock stomped down the stairs and out into the evening air. John tried to smile at Greg but it came off as more of a grimace.

"Everything alright?" Greg asked, quite sure he knew the answer himself.

"He's just...you know how he can be." John replied with a long sigh.

"Mmm, but he's been a bit different lately, hasn't he?" Greg said with a pitying smile, starting down the stairs with John.

"I don't know what you mean." John lied.

"Are you two..." Greg tried.

"It's not like that." John shot back. "He's not like that."

"You don't really believe that!" Greg said, astonished.

"I honestly don't know anymore." John replied, clenching his fists as they made it out the front door.

Sherlock was waiting by a cab, frowning at his own feet, when they arrived. John let Greg slip into the cab first and sat across from him. Sherlock slipped in next to him and John was surprised to feel the taller man's hand on his knee. He'd thought their little spat would stop Sherlock from being so affectionate. He was apparently wrong. He hoped he wasn't blushing.

He avoided Greg's eyes the whole way to the pub and was glad the ride was blessedly short. He followed the men in and saw that most of the met had already gathered. The group cheered at Greg and Sherlock took a seat in a booth surprisingly close to the crowd. John slipped in next to him and raised his hand to let he barmaid know to bring them both a pint.

_____

John didn't often get pissed and Sherlock never did. That didn't seem to stop them. They were both on their fourth...no, fifth pint when a woman approached John and leaned against the table to grin at him. The rest of the group was to the boisterous level that often accompanied bachelor parties and none of them noticed the woman.

Just as she was about to say something Sherlock came back from the loo and slid in next to John, drunkenly glaring at the woman while putting an arm around John. She pulled a face and left quickly. John let his head hit the table and groaned loudly.

"I could have...I could've taken her home." he slurred.

"This again." Sherlock said with a roll of his eyes.

"Yes! This again! You can't expect me to stay at home every night with you!" John whined loudly.

Sherlock shook his head roughly, not such a good idea after drinking so much, and stood on unsure legs. John stood as well and started following after him, shouting his goodbye over his shoulder and barely making it out the front doors through the drunken swarm of people to the pavement outside.

He climbed into the waiting cab and the two men rode home in silence.

The silence extended as they made it into the flat and got ready for bed, threatening to keep until morning and making John's stomach hurt more than the lager. When Sherlock finally got into bed next to John and slung an arm around his waist he broke the silence. 

"I believe this is where we make drunken confessions." he murmured.

"What?" John sputtered.

"Drunken confessions." Sherlock said again, moving to rest his face against John's neck. "Aren't they customary when dealing with sexual tension between friends?"

"I'm not, that is, you...you go first." John replied, stumbling over his words and feeling suddenly sober.

"I like the way you smell," Sherlock said, inhaling at John's pulse point, "and I want to touch more of your skin."

"I thought...I thought this was just comfort." John said, stunned at Sherlock's confession as well as his own heart rate.

"That's because you're an idiot." Sherlock replied with a chuckle.

John was about to complain when Sherlock started to pull his shirt over his head. He watched as the man's slender waist and chest were revealed, then squeaked when Sherlock started to pull his pajama shirt off as well. Sherlock tossed them aside and lay almost completely on top of John so their chests were pressed together.

John's arms stuck up in the air for a moment before he got the courage to wrap them around Sherlock's back. He thought the genius had fallen asleep when the rumble of his voice moved through them.

"It's your turn, John." 

John swallowed thickly and clutched Sherlock tighter before speaking his own truth.

"I've stopped dating women." he said, voice shaky, "Permanently."

Sherlock breathed deeply against John's hot skin and hummed. 

"Goodnight, John." he whispered.

"Goodnight, Sherlock." John replied.


	6. For Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after 'drunken confesions'

John rolled onto his side and groaned, cursing himself for sneaking those couple shots the night prior. Sherlock had his arm snaked around his waist and moved so he was perfectly slotted against his back. John's heart beat faster as he felt the small patch of chest hair brush between his shoulder blades. 

It wasn't the kick to the gut that most people would expect for John. It wasn't that he hated the fact that he was bisexual, he just didn't try to advertise it. Since he more often than not dated women it wasn't worth bringing up. It wasn't that he wasn't attracted to men, that he was, it was that dating men had always been messy. He got attached in a way he never did with women. The last time he fell for a man, or rather, let himself fall for a man, was Sholto. He'd ended up hurt and alone. He hadn't wanted to do it again.

Sherlock brushed his nose against John's neck and sighed, wiggling slightly and making John's breath hitch. He wanted to press back against him, grind his hips and wake him with a moan. He wanted to get him hard and slick and open and sink into him over and over again until he begged for release. He had no idea if Sherlock wanted that.

"You're thinking so loudly." Sherlock whined.

"Mmm. Sorry." John replied, clearing his throat.

"S'alright." Sherlock replied, rolling onto his back and stretching.

"Want a paracetamol?" John asked as he pushed back the duvet and wiggled his toes.

"No. Don't get hangovers." Sherlock replied.

"Bastard." John grumbled as he sat up.

The right side of Sherlock's mouth ticked up and he got out of bed himself.

"I'll make tea." he said.

"Genius." John hummed as he made his way to the loo.

Sherlock smiled fully at that and stopped to slip on his blue dressing gown. He wanted to reach out and grasp John's hand as he passed but stopped himself, not sure whether it would be too soon. The actual thought made him quirk his head to the side. Christ, he was being thoughtful. The fact that it pointed to a stronger connection to John wasn't so surprising. He'd been suspecting that for weeks, the possibility of love.

John tapped him on the shoulder and pushed a mug of already cooling tea in front of him. Sherlock swallowed and picked it up, turning to look at John.

"I was thinking." he said.

"I know. I could hear it." John teased, leaning back against the cooktop and resting his hands on his hips.

Sherlock quirked a smile and took a sip. He took in John, relaxed and sleep mussed, and came to the conclusion that yes, he was in love. Damn.

"Listen," he began, "last night...I didn't mean to-"

"Can I kiss you?" John interjected hesitantly.

"Y-yes." Sherlock sputtered.

John took a few steps closer and gripped Sherlock's hips gently before leaning up to press their lips together. Sherlock breathed quickly through his nose and let his eyes close. He sighed deeply when John tilted his head to the side and moved his lips. They slipped open and John sucked gently on his bottom lip. It was...something. Something good. Something just this side of getting accidentally electrocuted by low voltage equipment, Sherlock should know.

When John drew away he looked up at Sherlock with a soft smile and brushed his thumbs in circles on Sherlock's hips. Sherlock took a deep breath and looked away.

"So you want-" he began.

"Mmm. Yes." John replied with a smug smile.

"With me." Sherlock added.

"Yes." John confirmed.

"Long term or..." Sherlock asked, swallowing rapidly and still refusing to look John in the eye. 

"You really think I could let you go?" John asked with a snort.

Sherlock shrugged and glanced nervously over. "No one stays. Everyone always leaves."

John wrapped his arms up and around Sherlock's back and pulled him into a tight hug. He felt Sherlock's rapid heartbeat against his skin and closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry. People are arseholes." he murmured against warm skin.

"Mmm." Sherlock agreed.

"So you're not a virgin?" John asked, trying to keep his voice light.

"Mycroft loves to exaggerate." he sighed.

"Yeah, he's as bad as you." John teased.

"Aren't you supposed to be sweet talking me?" Sherlock teased back.

"I think we're past that." John said, taking a step back.

Sherlock gave him one of his goofy grins and they both jumped when Sherlock's phone rang. The exchanged looks and Sherlock slipped from John's embrace to get it from the bedroom.

"This had better be good." he said.

"You think I want to be out of bed?" Greg grumbled in return.

"What can I do for you, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, for once taking pity on the man.

"Triple homicide. Or suicide. There's honestly so much blood we can't tell at this point. Anderson's replacement got food poisoning so the new guy is here and-" Greg began.

"You need me." Sherlock interjected. "Text the address. Give us a half hour."

Sherlock rang off before Greg could reply and tossed his mobile onto the bed.

"John." he said with a grin, "Triple homicide."

John chuckled and shook his head. "You want the first shower?" he asked.

"No, you go ahead." Sherlock replied with a wave of his hand.

_____

Surprisingly enough, it seemed that John giving in and kissing Sherlock had made the man nervous. On the ride to the crime scene Sherlock didn't put his hand on John's knee. John mulled it over for a few minutes before deciding that he should just go for it. He looked out the window, giving Sherlock the chance to not be watched for reaction, and placed his hand on Sherlock's thigh. The muscles there tensed at first but were soon enough back in their relaxed state. John smiled to himself over that and sat comfortably for the rest of the trip.

They pulled up to an old rusted out building, hardly any windows left and a large hole in one wall, the type used in horror movies to instill fear, and hopped out. John paid the cabbie and took off after Sherlock. Sherlock, who was at this point so thrumming with adrenalin that he almost physically shook. 

Greg was inside shouting something at the forensics team and rubbing the back of his head as though he'd been hit. When they walked closer John saw a trickle of bloody coming from just below his hand. 

"You're bleeding." John said as he approached.

Greg looked over and then down at his hand and sighed. "Bloody buggering hell." he grumbled.

John stopped to look over the wound as Sherlock moved towards the dead bodies. There were, as advertised, three men laying in large pools of blood, bullet wounds evident, and two pistols. Sherlock knelt near the far end and looked closely.

"Haven't you got a med kit of some sort in your car?" John asked as he held Greg's hair apart to see what the gash looked like.

"Yeah. Come on." Greg said, glancing over his shoulder as they left the building.

The panda was parked right outside and Greg got a small kit from the boot and passed it over. John rummaged through and found triple antibiotic cream and an alcohol swab.

"What happened to your head?" John asked as he situated Greg on the kerb so he could kneel behind him to work.

"The new guy. Passed out at all the blood and had to be carried away by stretcher. I tripped moving out of the way for them." Greg admitted.

"The new forensics lad? How did he-" John began.

"No. No, I've got a new assistant. He's new to the force. Just a bloody kid." Lestrade said.

"No pun intended, I hope." John teased as he cleaned the wound.

"No, Donovan caught him before he hit the ground. I think she has a crush on the poor bloke. Kind of adorable, them sitting together on the end of the ambulance."

"She should stop dating coworkers." John said absently as he stuck the kit back into the boot.

"Speak for yourself." Greg shot back with a small grin.

"How did you-" John said.

"He scared away a possible date last night and you let him. Then he shows up on my crime scene all grinning and childlike. Drew my own conclusions." Greg said as he stood with a wince.

"You saw that last night? Christ." John said, shaking his head. "Well, yeah. We're, um, yeah, together now. Hope that doesn't cause any trouble."

Greg shook his head and patted John on the back. "Naw. Long time coming."

"I need background on the three men. This is a business deal gone bad. Full backgrounds, too, not the flimsy little things you all try to buy me off with." Sherlock said agitatedly as he approached.

"Keep insulting me and see how far you get, Sherlock." Lestrade warned.

"We're going out for breakfast. Text me when you have the info. John, let's go." Sherlock replied unconcerned.

John said goodbye to Greg and followed Sherlock out to the main street to catch a cab.

"Why are we going to get food?" John asked. 

"They'll take forever and you're going to get hungry. I figured I'd feed you up. That's what boyfriends do, isn't it?" Sherlock asked with forced calm.

John smiled and stood a bit closer at that. A cab came soon and took them to a little cafe ten minutes away. 

John ordered a full fry up and sat back in his seat with a poorly disguised grin. Sherlock was tapping away on his mobile and continued to as John's food came and was eaten. When the waitress came with the bill he finally stuck said mobile in his coat and passed the woman his card. When John's smile grew he rolled his eyes and sighed.

"You're staring, John." he said in mock annoyance.

"You just paid. Without me asking." John returned.

"Don't get used to it." Sherlock dismissed.

"You're being thoughtful. Have been all morning." John prodded, Sherlock's reaction, flushed cheeks and avoidance, egged him on.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Lestrade had better be done, we don't have all day." Sherlock said quickly, pocketing the card the waitress brought back and signing the receipt.

"You're being a good boyfriend." John teased.

"Oh, shut it." Sherlock replied without much heat.

John chuckled and got up to make his way outside. The day had got impossibly colder and he shivered before following Sherlock into what seemed to be a waiting cab, he still wasn't sure how the man did that, and taking out his own mobile.

"Where are we meeting Lestrade?" he asked.

Sherlock told the cabbie to go to NSY, effectively answering his question, and placed a hand possessively on the John's knee. John put his hand on top of it and threaded their fingers together.

"Lestrade will be in the conference room. He's apparently dug up quite a bit of information." Sherlock replied.

"Good. Any clue what the business they were working on together was?" John asked.

"Probably illicit drugs, although it could have been an arms deal. I've put a few feelers out. I'm sure whatever Lestrade has come up with is only the cover. Could be a big operation." Sherlock answered.

"You think it's international?" John asked, wondering if they would have to hand things off to Mycroft at some point.

"Illicit drugs or arms being sold in an abandoned building on the edge of town by three men with at least two assault rifles and Russian mob tattoos? I can almost guarantee it. The question is whether we can get to the head of the operation before Lestrade becomes stupid enough to call my brother." Sherlock said, spitting the last word.

"So your plan is to personally take down the head of a smuggling ring? Let no one ever say you're an underachiever." John said with a snort. "You aren't allowed to get us killed. You remember that, right?"

"You act as though I sighed a contract. This is a dangerous job, someone's always going to get injured." Sherlock said with a sly grin.

"Injured, sure, slightly, but not killed, you git." John teased.

"Yes, John." Sherlock replied with a warm smile.

It occurred to John that this was them flirting, that and that they'd been doing it for years. Bloody hell.


	7. Me Too, Git

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter. I hope you guys enjoyed this story. On to the next one.

When they made it to the Met the temperature had dropped lower and as John got from the cab at last, after paying, because not everything can change, he saw that Sherlock had removed his scarf and was waiting for him on the kerb. John took a step towards him and shivered just in time for Sherlock to lean forward and wrap the scarf around his neck. He grinned and bit his tongue as Sherlock adjusted it and then leaned in to peck him on the cheek. 'How very domestic', he thought.

"Come, John. Let's get this over with." Sherlock purred.

John nodded and followed him into the building and down the long hall to Lestrade's office. The room was cramped with files and the man sat with his head in his hands, looking at papers through his twined fingers.

"So, what have you found?" Sherlock asked as he flowed into the room, underlying anxious energy seeming to fill every crack.

"Nothing. Bloody nothing. Thought we had at first. Looked promising. Now there's bloody nothing." Lestrade sighed as he sat back in his chair and seemed to deflate.

"Give me what you have. I'm sure I can find something that isn't useless." Sherlock replied, sticking his hand out impatiently.

Greg clenched his jaw and acquiesced with a groan.

"Just let me know what you find." he said as he passed two large stacks of files to John and offered Sherlock a memory stick.

"That's password protected by the way." he said as the two men left the room.

"And your horrible taste in music is obvious even to John." Sherlock said with a grin.

Greg threw John a confused frown and John had the decency to look guilty for a spell before waking out the door.

"What the hell was that about?" John asked as they left the way they came in.

"Please don't tell me you've grown a sudden fondness for Morrissey." Sherlock drawled.

"That's his password?" John hissed as they slipped into a cab.

"No, it's Davyhulme." Sherlock replied. When John gave him a confused look he rolled his eyes. "The town where he was born? Really?"

"How is it that liking Morrissey is bad but knowing where he was born isn't?" John asked.

"I never said I didn't like him." Sherlock shot back, a bit cowed.

John laughed and sat back in the seat, to which Sherlock smiled and pressed a warm hand to his inner thigh. John took his hand and held it tight.

_____

 

John had fallen asleep a few hours prior, having made it through a commendable amount of files and resting now with his face against one on the kitchen table. Sherlock was still up, pacing now, skin crawling with the knowledge that he was missing something.

He had the information needed to find and storm the operation but lacked a real edge. He needed to have something with which to threaten the man, needed some kind of upper hand, before he would put John in harm's way. He scratched a hand across his scalp and heaved out a faint whine as he continued to move in jolting steps.

_____

Two hours later John groaned and sat up, one of the papers sticking to his face momentarily. He batted it away and stretched as best he could before standing. Sherlock was laid out on the couch in his usual ramrod manner, hands steepled beneath his chin. The clock read twelve and John wondered at what point he'd fallen asleep, moving around the room and picking up the empty takeaway boxes and tea mugs that spelled out their afternoon and evening easily. 

"Not sure if you can hear me but I think I should get some sleep. I know you won't, but I'd better head to bed." he said as he ruffled Sherlock's hair, something clenching in his chest at the knowledge that he could do this simple act without crossing a line. "I'll see you in the morning."

Just as he went to pull away Sherlock's hand shot out and gripped his wrist. There was no other movement or sound from the tall man. John sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Well, come on then." he said as he maneuvered Sherlock off the sofa and pulled him down the hall to their bedroom.

Sherlock settled into what was so similar a position as to almost convince John he'd hovered there and the walking down the hall was all a dream. John chuckled and went about getting ready for bed. 

Clothes chucked and teeth brushed, he slipped under the covers beside Sherlock and wrapped an arm around his waist.

_____

In the morning John rolled over and sighed happily as Sherlock brushed his fingers through his short cut hair. He stretched as Sherlock continued to pet him and sighed again before opening his eyes. Sherlock was watching him with something approaching concern.

"Mmm. What's wrong?" John asked as he slipped from the bed and walked towards the loo.

"Nothing." Sherlock lied, mind still focused on how he was supposed to keep John safe.

John brushed his teeth, emptied his bladder and came back into the room to climb back under the covers. Sherlock slipped down the bed, still fully clothed from the night prior, and wrapped himself so thoroughly around John that the shorter of the two couldn't see. He held on tightly for a few moments as John tired to squirm away but finally had to give in.

"Are you trying to suffocate me?" John asked with a confused smile.

"We can't go after the drug dealers." Sherlock spit.

John watched his eyes carefully, seeing honest distress, and ran a hand up his neck to cup his cheek.

"Okay. Want to tell me why?" he asked gently.

"It's too dangerous! I've been trying to find a way, some possible way, to have the upper hand and it just doesn't exist!" Sherlock was breathing roughly now, clearly agitated over the whole thing.

"Hey, hey. It's okay. We don't have to if you don't want to. We can hand the information over to Lestrade." John soothed.

"It's not that I don't want to." Sherlock sighed.

"Okay..." John said, not following.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said something he really had no intention of saying. "It's too dangerous and I can't have you getting killed now that I know that I love you."

His eyes grew wide and he turned away.

"I mean, now that, well, it's just-" he tried.

"I love you too." John said, voiced pinched.

"You what?" Sherlock demanded.

"I love you. Is that really so hard to-" John began.

He was cut off by Sherlock's mouth on his, tongue pressing roughly between his lips. He moaned into his mouth and Sherlock pulled away to tear at his clothes, quickly divesting and climbing on top of John.

"Jesus." John panted.

Sherlock gripped his face and licked into his mouth, searching with his tongue for something, who knows what. John grunted and pushed his pajama trousers and pants down, struggling for a moment to get them off before pulling the sheets aside so that their newly naked bodies were pressed together.

"John." Sherlock moaned, voice breathy and desperate.

"Tell me what you need." John replied, gripping Sherlock's arse and rolling his hips.

"I need you, oh, God, on top of me. Please." Sherlock whined.

John grinned and flipped them easily, taking Sherlock's breath away and leaning down to lick into his mouth. Sherlock keened and thrust his hips and John drew back to spit into his hand, a movement so base and nearly pornographic as to make Sherlock grunt, before slipping a hand between them and pulling quickly at both their cocks.

"You want this?" John asked, breathing roughly against Sherlock's neck.

"You really have to ask that?" Sherlock giggled as heat pooled deep in his belly.

"Shut up." John shot back without any heat, moving his hand faster.

"Yes, John." Sherlock whispered, feeling his orgasm so close it all but gripped him by the throat.

"Fucking hell." John cursed as he gripped tighter and began thrusting his hips in rhythm.

"John. John I'm going to, John, I'm, John-" Sherlock whimpered.

"Go on, then. Come for me." John growled.

Sherlock's head fell back and his hips thrust once before twitching as he spilled himself all over John's fist. John stroked them both until Sherlock became over sensitized and then knelt over him and fucked his fist with stuttering hips.

"John." Sherlock said in a wheezy exhale, eyes half lidded and gentle smile across his lips.

John grunted and started to come, white streaking across Sherlock's stomach and chest. He stroked himself through his orgasm and then collapsed on top of Sherlock with a loud sigh. He felt Sherlock's arms wrap around his back and sighed happily.

"I really do." Sherlock whispered. "What I said before."

John chuckled and nuzzled Sherlock's neck. "Me too, git."


End file.
